


Ships (and Cliffs, and jumping off them)

by mazzyg



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blink And You Miss It Slash, Boats and Ships, Dare, Gen, Mild Language, The Barest Hint of England/France
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 00:44:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7486716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mazzyg/pseuds/mazzyg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England intends to show these boys that their ideas of excitement are nothing compared to climbing the main mast of a proper ship. It's a matter of pride, you see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Better Than Bungee-Jumping

England bent down and ripped off his left shoe. 

“What in the world are you doing?” asked pleasantly amused France from behind him. England ignored him with a stubborn set to his jaw and hopped on his bare sole, dragging off the second shoe.

“England’s finally gone crazy.” America’s happy voice made the tic in England’s brow twitch hard. “That’s all there is to it.”

England threw down the second shoe and stalked up to the overgrown brat, who stared at him with wide eyes, to jab a finger at America’s chest. His pointy finger was dulled by America’s ridiculous star-spangled banner tie, but he couldn’t be arsed to care. 

“Look here, you. When you were still in skirts, I was climbing up tow lines and into crow’s nests with nothing but the skin of my feet to keep me from falling over twenty feet straight down into unyielding oak. Oak dragged from my own shores, forced into ribs, masts, panels and god knows what all else. If you’re going to go on about how brave it is to jump off bridges with a bit of rubber-band attached, I’m going to show you exactly how stupid it actually is!”

“...England,” France said, sounding amused, “You did not make any sense.”

“IN SHORT,” England over-rode him, loudly, “Sit your arse down and I’ll show you what a real man can do with a ship!”

America stared at him blankly.

“England, you’ve gone—Really. Maybe you should sit down?” A look of vague alarm crossed America’s face, but England swung away before the boy could even think about putting hands on him. He stalked to the reproduction three-master’s tow line, wrestling off his suit jacket as he went. 

France stared at him. “Oh no, no you don’t, England—“

“Hold this,” England snapped, shoving the jacket into France’s arms as he passed him and ignoring the way France’s face could not decide between high amusement in his brows and a concerned mou with his mouth. 

“What is he doing?” England heard Canada ask, and then, “England!” in a high pitched screech he couldn’t identify.

He had no time to care. His foot had hit the edge of the dock and he was busy wrapping his hands around the large, heavy iron chains that locked the swaying ship to the bay’s sandy floor. With a sharp exhale and a soft, “hup,” hissed from between his teeth the United Kingdom of Britain and Northern Ireland swung his body underneath the chain, tightened his shoulders, clenched his stomach, and threw his knees over the huge pieces of iron.

Shouts of alarm and disbelief faded beyond the regular slap of water against the wide prow of the Victory’s Flight. Even if it were an American Atlantic that rocked the lovely schooner whose anchor chain he scaled, the smell of salt took hold of his memory while his hands fumbled, then remembered, the rhythm of climbing. 

Wind dragged at his hair and pulled the sweat from his face as he reached the top after some minutes of hard work, where the shouts had fallen into a disbelieving silence. Here’s the tricky part, he thought, smirking as he swung himself up and over the side of the chain. Close to the ship, the chain was taught, and he could crouch low on the wide iron bands and skitter close enough to the side to jump, grab the edge, and haul his body up with his fingertips clinging to the decking before shimmying under the first rail.

His palms smarted as he gained his feet, bare soles slapping against the desk and finding a good fitting against the old girl’s oiled boards. He threw a look over the rail to the now quite small figures of America, Canada, and France standing at the edge of the dock. From here, he could only make out that France had his hands lifted, in some attempt to calm the boys, but he could tell from the straight way he was standing and how his fingers flexed that he wanted to strangle something.

England deeply hoped it was him.

Caught up with the smell of the sea, England turned away from them and walked around the coils of ropes, small bronze placards, and reproduction barrels to find the main mast. Swaying gently with the rocking of the ship, the mast gave the impression of extending up into a fragile, swaying reed. Her yards billowed gently under the mild breeze, and as he studied the loop and knotting of her ropes, he put a hand against the wood of the mast. 

France, and everyone else, might call him ridiculous for claiming to see faeries in the corners of rooms or small gnomes hiding under the edges of hedges, but there was a soul to a ship. He could feel her there in the creak of her wood, in the song of her shifting ropes, and the smoothed surface under his hand. 

He grinned madly, crouched, and leapt for a dangling line as a short cut to the rope ladder marked dangerous, do not climb. 

By the time he’d gotten himself up to the main top, his shoulders had started to scream and his feet had begun to burn. He threw an arm over the side and dragged himself up, falling in his back in a tangle with his feet in the air, propped up on the side of the ‘crow’s nest’. He lay like that, panting, for a good few minutes staring at the clouds being chased across the blue sky (America’s eyes) and torn by the high winds in the atmosphere into bits of stray cotton. 

For a little while, all was well, his body burning with a pleasant exhaustion that, for the moment, staved off all the complaining it would do for being so suddenly abused on an angry whim desperate to whip the self-satisfied smirk off America’s face. Bungee-jumping. Really. There was nothing to it, just throwing yourself off a cliff, which was easy enough for a drunk nit on his way home from a bender to do. It got you nowhere but dizzy.

This, though, this had a purpose in terms of ridiculous risks and heights. 

“…rth…r…”

England shut his eyes, refusing to have noticed the faint drift of a voice on the air that was suspiciously American-sounding.

“Ar…thr…”

At least the idiots weren’t screaming England at him in a tourist spot, but only America had those sorts of lungs.

England grumbled, swung his feet off where he’d propped them on the edge of the main top, and attempted to stand. He was vaguely pleased that the sides were tall enough no one witness his utter inability to stand while his body screamed bloody murder and dumped him into a curled mess around where the mast stuck through the floor. 

He popped up, eventually, over the side with a dry look prepared ahead of time for the eventuality they were looking up at that very moment, to look down. 

Canada looked a little frantic, fingers tight in America’s sleeve, and pointing upwards at him. France had his hands in his pockets, the bastard, and easy as you please turned up his face to offer England a broad, amused grin. 

America, who had been considering the rope ladder and likely had been mid-assurance that the sign only meant for certain people and England’s already done it, looked up, and England drew a breath.

Those blue eyes were wide and bright with excitement, and dare say, perhaps the breathless smile America sported seemed a touch impressed.

Success warmed his stomach, the day suddenly brilliant and wonderful. He hung over the edge what he knew to be dangerously far, his palms braced low on the outer side, and called sweetly, “Took you some time, didn’t it? Much faster this way, you see.”

France snorted but hell, he did not even care.


	2. Worse Than Bruised Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Engand's body isn't what it used to be, and France is happy to remind him. As long as the younger boys don't find out.

“You’re like a young buck trying to run himself off cliffs in order to impress …. Hm, I suppose calling America a doe would be a bit misleading, wouldn’t it?” France inquired from where he lounged on the bedspread, fully enjoying the faces England made wrapping bandages coated with neosporene begged from Canada’s luggage around his own palms.

“Shut up,” England huffed, trying not to sigh too deeply with relief as he tucked an end in. “You saw the way he was nattering on and on about how Americans are so daring, they invented this sport, you should try it. As if no one’s thought about tossing themselves off cliffs before!”

“Didn’t you invent that?”

England ignored him. “It’s not the first time he’s gotten a thing like that wrong. As if none of us have ever known what true risk is.”

France rolled over onto his stomach. His suit coat had long ago been given over to the closet, his tie quick to follow. A stroll after the meeting had turned into an outright adventure none of them had been dressed for, so France lounged in his button-up and slacks with the same impudence he would have saved for silk shirts and designer jeans. He pillowed his chin on laced fingers, smiling secretively at England. 

England caught himself staring at the fluid motion, and glared at France for good measure before jerking the bandage on his other hand tighter. 

“Do be honest, Angleterre,” France hummed, eyes bright. England narrowed his eyes at him. “I saw the way you looked at that schooner the moment you spied her from the top floors of the conference building.”

England focused very hard on not using the bandages from his hands to make a garrote perfectly sized for France’s neck. “Don’t be ridiculous. I cannot believe you are suggesting I used America as an excuse to clamber all over a ship.”

“That ship’s seen more action from you, my dear, than anyone has in centuries,” said France, arching a brow. 

“I do not have a ship fetish!” England shot to his feet, only to stumble and curse as pain shot up his thighs and dumped him right back into his chair. 

“I never said you did!” sung France, laughing at him. Damn him to all sorts of paisley hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really really love the phrase, 'Damn him to all sorts of paisley hell.' I think France might scream.

**Author's Note:**

> This came about, ages ago, when I stumbled across something about bungee jumping originating in England and went on a hunt to understand proper ship terminology. I like writing reminders that England has been many kinds of people (and that England is many different things to different people), that a country is not a stereotype, that you shouldn't make assumptions. Or something.


End file.
